UndercoverSurrender (17 page)

He took a sip of the coffee he’d just poured. It was worse
than hers had been.

“Please, Vik, just look at it.”

Putting down the cup, he obliged Samantha, taking what she
had held out to him. “Okay, a phone. So what?”

“Not a phone,” she said excitedly. “It’s really sort of a
miniature computer that wipes all transmissions after they’re sent or received
and read.”

“So? Whose is it?”

“It’s that State Department guy’s.”

“Nobody told me you were a kleptomaniac. So the good ole
U.S.A. has nice toys. I’m not surprised.”

“It’s designed to wipe the transmissions but I figured out
to retrieve them.”

“Mmm.” He looked at the back where she had popped off a
panel. It did look fancy. How come Interpol never got any neat gadgets like
this? Not to mention, out in the field, he didn’t get shit.

Bug. Exterminator.

His head shot up. Jesus, he was a fucking idiot. His only
excuse was that he was still mourning the loss of her sweet body in his bed and
so found it hard to think around her now.

“This guy was transmitting messages? To Washington?”

“No! That’s just it. I think he was transmitting to the
island.”

“Why do you think that?”

Her technical explanation—apparently she was a good little
hacker—did nothing for him. But it didn’t need to. He believed she’d done what
she said she had.

“And the message said?”

“Stand by for possible follow-up force.”

“Shit.” That meant they might already be too late. Whatever
evidence was on that island would probably be gone by the time they could get
to it.

“Don’t worry, though, I sent a communication that said
‘false alarm, leaving vicinity.’”

Startled by her nerve, he laughed and then kissed her
swiftly and went to get J.D. and Chaps. They had an interrogation to conduct.
Quickly.

Avery Windom was Vik’s absolutely favorite kind of traitor.
The cowardly kind. With little more than a dirty look or two from him and J.D.,
the man was singing like a canary, every detail he knew of the sex ring
tumbling out.

The raid they mounted based on that intel shortly thereafter
was an unqualified success. In a supreme example of the kind of international
inter-agency cooperation that never would have been possible before 9/11, Vik
and J.D. and J.D.’s team of SEALs had swooped down on the little hole in the
wall known as Visto—it wasn’t on that particular island, that was just a
holding pen—and had captured, or killed, a lot of very sick motherfuckers. And
rescued a lot of young girls.

The sex ring was definitely shut down. Permanently. At least
this one anyway and that was about all anybody could do. Take ‘em on one at a
time.

So why was he so down in the dumps?

Maybe because by the time he made it back to
The Victory
,
the one young girl he wanted to see was already gone, spirited away by her rich
father, probably never to sully her hands with the likes of him again.

So instead of the solid, job-well-done feeling he usually
got after a successful mission, he felt like shit. And drinking to try to
counteract it didn’t much help. On what he figured was about the fifth day of
his bender, Crenshaw showed up, just showed up, on the bar seat next to him in
some dive in…where was he again?

Oh, hell, what did it matter? He ordered another scotch.
“Hi, old man.”

“Hello, Vik.” Crenshaw ordered his usual martini, in
Lithuanian.

Oh, that was where he was. He remembered now.

Retired from Interpol, Crenshaw still looked suave as he
sipped his martini. The guy was probably the original prototype for James Bond.

“You look like shit, young man.”

Vik laughed. “Thanks. And I was just thinking how cool you
still look for such an old fart.”

“Compliments will get you nowhere, my boy.”

“What’s up?” He didn’t question how Crenshaw had found him.
That was pointless.

“I’m here to congratulate you on a successful venture. And
yet when I show up, I find you look like you’ve lost your best friend. Or,” he
added, “your best girl.”

“Cut the bullshit. I’m sure you didn’t expect me to be
celebrating. I’m sure you’ve probably been watching me on some fucking spy cam
for days.” Vik didn’t believe that. Not really. Well, not when he was sober
anyway. “So is this going to be some lecture or what?”

Crenshaw shook his full head of silver hair. “It’s no use
lecturing you, Vik. I found that out early on. You go where you want to go.”

“Like hell! I go where I’m told to go.”

“But never unless you want to.”

He grunted.

“So where do you want to go now, Vik?”

“Not that drafty old castle you keep trying to get me to.
What, is my long-lost grandmother on her deathbed or something? Has my evil old
uncle been informed he’s not the true heir of whatever you call it earldom?”

Crenshaw bit into an olive. “You know I’d never go against
your wishes and inform them of your whereabouts or petition for the title on
your behalf.”

“Position for the title?” Vik laughed, hard.

“
Petition
.”

“That is so fucking ridiculous.”

“Perhaps, my boy. Perhaps it’s an antiquated sense of
identity that you can never assume because you’ve been away from it too long.
But you have to assume some identity.”

“I have assumed an identity. I’m Vikram Pillay. When I’m not
working that is. When I’m working, I’m Vik Standish. Or maybe it was Stanford.”

“No, Vik, you’re not. Pillay, I mean. You’re a little boy
who got lost when his father was murdered and who got taken in by a kind woman.
That’s all. And when she died, you lost even that identity. And this, what
you’ve been doing all this time with Interpol, you’re good at it. Very good at
it. But it’s not you. And it’s a young man’s game.”

Vik scoffed.

“No really. You’re thirty-three.”

“Ancient,” he muttered.

“Unless you want to die on the job, yes. Undercover work can
last only so long until it eats out the real man.”

“What real man?” Vik downed the last of his scotch. Had he
gotten a room in this dive? He could barely remember.

“Come on. Come back to London with me.”

Vik shook his head. “No thanks. I’m not done here.”

“What? Drowning your sorrows? Vik, you
are
a real
man. A good man. Complicated, but good.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Crenshaw slipped off his bar stool. “If you won’t admit you
might want to see that drafty old castle sometime, maybe you could admit you
might like to see the lovely Miss Reynolds.”

Vik stared at the bottom of his empty glass. “Yeah, that I
would.”

“Good, because I was afraid I was going to have to leave
that sweet girl waiting in the car forever.”

His head popped up. “Samantha is with you?”

“Yes. It seems she wanted to see you and couldn’t find out
where you were. Her brother used his influence to put her in touch with J.D.
Kates, who put her in touch with me.”

That fucking Kates. Vik strode to the door.

What a great guy.

He followed Crenshaw out to the limousine and slid in the
back seat. Where Crenshaw went, he had no idea. He had eyes for no one other
than Samantha. Her silky brown hair was tied back in a braid that he could not
stop himself from winding around his fist and she was dressed in some kind of
suit.

She looked so fucking beautiful.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea seeing her when he was this
drunk.

He pulled her to him with her braid and kissed her, tasting
the fresh clean mint of her.

She, however, undoubtedly tasted nothing but scotch on him.
After a second, she pulled away, laughing. “I guess I don’t have to ask what
you’ve been doing these last few days.”

He smiled crookedly. “You have me at a disadvantage,
Samantha. I’m drunk as hell and, despite all the rigorous training Crenshaw put
me through a million years ago, I’m going to tell you the truth about anything
you ask me. So, yeah, I’ve been drinking, but you know why?”

She shook her head.

“To forget that I wasn’t with you anymore.”

At that, she launched herself into his arms again, and
laughing, he held her a little away. “Now you. What have you been doing?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“No, but you’re much worse at lying than I am. So you pretty
much are an even bet to tell the truth anyway.”

“Okay, you got me there. I’ve been sulking because I wasn’t
with you anymore.”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” He laughed.

“Yeah. We are.” She kissed him so sweetly he thought he
would cry. Oh Christ, he better sober up or he was going to embarrass himself
big-time. He pulled her into his lap.

“So you met Crenshaw?”

“Yes. What a nice old gentleman.”

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s hard as nails.”

“Well, I’m very familiar with nice, hard-as-nails old
gentleman.”

“Speaking of which, how is your father?”

“Not quite the ogre I’m always trying to paint him to be.
When I told him how I felt about you, you know what he did?”

“I would’ve said locked you away somewhere, but here you
are, so I guess not.”

She laughed. “No, I would’ve said that too. But no, he said
he was proud of me. It seems like he and Michael were pretty impressed by my
escapades with you. They’ve finally agreed to let me live my own life, make my
own decisions. And I’ve finally agreed to stop blaming them for everything and
acting out.”

“Well, we’ve got everything figured out here. Who needs
psychoanalysis?” He noticed suddenly that they were moving. The opaque screen
of smoked glass kept him from seeing the driver, or Crenshaw for that matter,
if he was in the front seat. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t really know. Crenshaw said something about a
castle, but I think he was joking.”

Vik laughed. “Probably not. But if you’re with me, I don’t
care where we’re going.”

“You’re not going to change your mind and slip out on some
dangerous mission when you’re sober?”

“No. I kind of get the feeling I’m being forcibly retired to
a desk job.”

“Good. But if you do go out in the field, maybe I could go
with you. I think I was pretty good at it.”

“You were excellent, sweetie.” He kissed her. “Without your
coconuts, I’d be toast.”

“That reminds me, whenever we get to wherever we’re going,
I’m going to make you breakfast.”

He groaned, but then thought of the bright side. “As long as
it’s breakfast in bed, you got a deal.”

She smiled. “I’ll make sure it is. A deal.”

About the Author

Angela Claire’s first love was romance novels, but she
resolved to give them up temporarily for law books (which were considerably
less fun). In a quest for a “responsible” career, she headed off to Harvard law
school, obtained her diploma and settled into a corporate law practice in New
York City—which she hated! After staying in the rat race long enough to pay
back her massive student loans, Angela returned to her roots in the Midwest and
is working as a lawyer at a more leisurely pace than big city law firm life
would allow. A multi-published romance author, she writes in her spare time and
finds romance in real life with her husband. Angela would love to hear from
you.

Angela welcomes comments from readers. You can find her
website and email addresses on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
.

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Also by
Angela Claire

Executive Perks

Pleasuring
the Professor

Seductive
Intent

Ellora’s Cave Publishing

www.ellorascave.com

Undercover Surrender

ISBN 9781419941429

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Undercover Surrender Copyright © 2012 Angela Claire

Edited by April Chapman

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Electronic book publication August 2012

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